A little while after our return to Saint-Cloud, the First Consul, while riding in the park with his wife and Cambaceres, took a fancy to drive the four horses attached to the carriage which had been given him by the inhabitants of Antwerp.  He took his place on the driver’s seat, and took the reins from the hands of Caesar, his coachman, who got up behind the carriage.  At that instant they were in the horse-shoe alley, which leads to the road of the Pavilion Breteuil, and of Ville d’Avray.  It is stated in the Memorial of St. Helena, that the aide-de-camp, having awkwardly frightened the horses, made them run away; but Caesar, who related to me in detail this sad disaster a few moments after the accident had taken place, said not a word to me about the aide-de-camp; and, in truth, there was needed, to upset the coach, nothing more than the awkwardness of a coachman with so little experience as the First Consul.  Besides, the horses were young and spirited, and Caesar himself needed all his skill to guide them.  Not feeling his hand on the reins, they set out at a gallop, while Caesar, seeing the new direction they were taking to the right, cried out, “To the left,” in a stentorian voice.  Consul Cambaceres, even paler than usual, gave himself little concern as to reassuring Madame Bonaparte, who was much alarmed, but screamed with all his might, “Stop, stop! you will break all our necks!” That might well happen, for the First Consul heard nothing, and, besides, could not control the horses; and when he reached, or rather was carried with the speed of lightning to, the very gate, he was not able to keep in the road, but ran against a post, where the carriage fell over heavily, and fortunately the horses stopped.  The First Consul was thrown about ten steps, fell on his stomach, and fainted away, and did not revive until some one attempted to lift him up.  Madame Bonaparte and the second consul had only slight contusions; but good Josephine had suffered horrible anxiety about her husband.  However, although he was badly bruised, he would not be bled, and satisfied himself with a few rubbings with eau de Cologne, his favorite remedy.  That evening, on retiring, he spoke gayly of his misadventure, and of the great fright that his colleague had shown, and ended by saying, “We must render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s; let him keep his whip, and let us each mind his own business.”

He admitted, however, notwithstanding all his jokes, that he had never thought himself so near death, and that he felt as if he had been dead for a few seconds.  I do not remember whether it was on this or another occasion that I heard the Emperor say, that “death was only asleep without dreams.”

In the month of October of this year, the First Consul received in public audience Haled-Effendi, the ambassador of the Ottoman Porte.